


Regular Decorated Emergency

by disarm_d



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Early in Canon, First Time, M/M, Teenagers, alcoholic parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:15:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarm_d/pseuds/disarm_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> what are we now by voices/who promised each other another life/neither of us can deliver</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regular Decorated Emergency

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This takes place before and during the time that Panic! got signed. Brendon is under 18, but above the age of consent when sex happens. I eyed canon timelines, then ignored canon and wrote this story. Please excuse the inaccuracies.
> 
> Many thanks to [](http://octette.livejournal.com/profile)[**octette**](http://octette.livejournal.com/) for the awesome beta and to [](http://fictionalaspect.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://fictionalaspect.livejournal.com/)**fictionalaspect** for talking with me about this as I wrote it.
> 
>  
> 
> Summary and cut-tag are from [Tigers](http://community.livejournal.com/theysaid/1747291.html) by Eliza Griswold.

> I am not looking for your jugular.  
> Only for your eyes.
> 
> This isn't exactly accurate.  
>  I want both. And if you ask, as you should  
>  if you like yourself, why do I go for such  
>  ferocious treats, I must  
>  admit
> 
> that there is something unexploded in my gut.
> 
> And it wants you because there is  
>  an unexploded something in yours too.
> 
> From The Threat by Andrei Codrescu

 

 __  
**one.**  


“You want a ride home?” Brendon asks, jiggling the keys in his hand.

“I’m just going to stay here for a while longer,” Ryan says. His guitar rests on his lap. He’s got three assignments due in the next week—seriously, who assigns homework in September? Ryan is unimpressed with the whole business of attending college; so far, it seems basically the same as high school. He's brought his backpack with him to practice, so he’s got his guitar if he wants to practice their songs and his textbook if he wants to get going on homework. He even remembered to pick up a sandwich on the way over, so he’s got everything he needs not to go home. He was sort of joking when he posted that he was going to sleep in the practice space – it’s not like there are any surfaces other than the floor to sleep on – but as he considers going back home, sleeping on the floor doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Ryan doesn’t voice the thought, but, “You can’t sleep here,” Spencer says, not looking up from where he’s bent in half, tightening something on his drum kit. “I’m pretty sure there are rats.”

“No there _aren’t_ ,” Ryan says, at the same time Brent says, “Eww,” and Brendon says, “Really? Because we shouldn’t be leaving out instruments—”

Spencer raises his head and gives them all a _look_ before turning his attention back to his kit.

“Dad can give you a ride to school tomorrow if you want to sleep over,” Spencer says.

“I’m fine to sleep at home,” Ryan says. “Just wanted to get some stuff done.”

“You can use my desk if you really want to work,” says Spencer. “I’m pretty sure most of the shit on it’s yours, anyway.”

Because Ryan lived with Spencer for a while last spring while his dad was in rehab and now relax just to relapse. It’s not like Ryan’s the one who fell off the wagon, but somehow he still feels embarrassed. He’d only stayed for so long because that was supposed to be the last time, except clearly _not_.

“I have homework, too,” Brendon says. “I can stay and we can get some shit done and then I’ll drive you home.” He gives Ryan big, hopeful eyes before catching himself and saying, “If you want, whatever.”

“Sure,” Ryan says, even though he’s been around people all day long and was looking forward to spending some time by himself. Ever since he moved out, Brendon’s taken to lingering after practice and tagging along with whoever of them seem most willing. If Ryan hadn’t seen the shithole Brendon’s living in, he would be more irritated with Brendon’s clinginess.

As it is, he waits until Brendon’s stretched out on the floor with his book in front of him before moving to the other end of the room and pulling out his own notebook. Brendon breathes loudly and tends to chew on his pen; Ryan pulls out his discman.

At first, Ryan keeps looking over at Brendon, distracted by the way he keeps jiggling his pen, kicking his heel up against the back of his thigh, tapping his fingers against the floor. But then somehow Ryan manages to get into the reading and he doesn’t know how much time has passed until he feels a light touch on his shoulder. He twists his head around and sees Brendon standing over him, looking apologetic.

“I’ve got an early shift tomorrow and it’s past midnight,” Brendon says. “Is it okay if I drive you home now?”

“Yeah, shit, sorry,” Ryan says. “I lost track of time. You should have said something earlier.”

“I had work to do, too,” Brendon says, looking away.

Ryan closes his books and stacks them. He takes the hand Brendon offers and lets Brendon pull him up to his feet. Now that he’s standing, Ryan’s body informs him that a _lot_ of time has passed, and, “Ouch,” Ryan mutters, grabbing at the back of his neck. There are downsides to doing homework on the floor. “I’m too old for this,” he says as he follows Brendon out of the room, his guitar in one hand and backpack in the other.

“You’ve graduated from high school and everything.” Brendon nods, solemnly. “You’re way over the hill.”

“Just downhill from here,” Ryan says. He presses his lips together in the awkward pause that follows and ignores the look Brendon gives him. He knows. He can hear Brendon’s voice as clearly as if he had spoken. _But not really, right?_

Ryan spent all of last year ranting and raving about how things were going to get better. And now it’s another year and he’s taking classes because he’s got a scholarship for _that_ and he can’t get anyone to listen to their music. He feels unfairly irritated at Brendon, sharp in response to the surge of guilt that wells up. It’s not _his_ fault that Brendon isn’t living with his parents right now. And, fuck it. Whatever. Ryan would love to live somewhere, anywhere, other than with his dad. Brendon’s fucking _lucky_ that his parents gave him enough money over the years that he actually had savings he could use to get away when things got bad enough. And he’s still got his mom’s purple minivan and _she_ pays for the insurance. Brendon’s mom does more for him when he’s kicked out of the house than Ryan’s mother ever did.

And then Ryan feels irritated with himself, because Brendon’s living in 200 square feet of disgustingness and he works thirty hours a week at the Smoothie Hut while finishing off his last year of high school, and the only reason he’s pulling any of this off is because he only needs like four hours of sleep a night. Ryan doesn’t know why he fixates on Brendon in particular. He doesn’t get riled up about Spencer’s life, or Brent’s. It’s just. _Brendon_. Like everything that happens with Brendon hits a little too close or a little too far from home.

It better fucking _not_ be all downhill from here.

Ryan puts his guitar in the back and climbs into the passenger seat, holding his backpack on his lap.

“Thanks for driving me,” he says while Brendon turns on the car.

“You’re on the way,” Brendon says, even though that’s not strictly true. He turns on the radio and flips channels a few times before finding a station that isn’t playing commercials.

“I’ve got new lyrics to show you,” Ryan says when they’re three streets away from his house.

Brendon looks over, raises his eyebrows.

“Not tonight,” Ryan says. “I’ll email them to you tomorrow or something.”

Nothing has actually happened, but Ryan feels exhausted. It’s too much to show Brendon the song right now.

Ryan’s dad is home. The front door is unlocked, so his dad is home. Ryan steps inside and hesitates for a moment before closing the door. He’s torn between easing it shut so that maybe he can sneak upstairs unnoticed and slamming it so that his dad definitely knows he’s here. In the end, he just closes it like normal, and the door makes normal door-closing noises and his dad calls out, “Ryan?” and Ryan says, “Hey.”

He waits, but his dad doesn’t say anything else, so that’s probably okay then. Ryan kicks off his shoes and walks upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

\--

 **  
**_two._  


“Halloween,” Brendon says, clicking his guitar case shut. Spencer left practice early so that he could get home to hand out candy with his family and Brent followed soon after him, leaving Brendon and Ryan to muck around in the practice room. “Woo.”

“You mean _boo_ ,” Ryan says, rolls his eyes just to save Brendon the trouble.

“You got anything planned?”

“Eh,” Ryan says. Mostly he’s just been glued to the computer screen these days. They finished another demo last week, but Ryan’s going to wait a little while longer to post it. People are still commenting on the songs he posted last week and he wants to drag that out as long as possible. It’s hard to balance—putting stuff out there enough to keep people interested but still leaving them wanting more. Ryan loves trying to figure it out. It’s been four hours since he last checked his email and a part of him is itching to get home. The other part knows that there are three different places he could go tonight if he wanted to party and feels somewhat compelled to go to all of them.

But if he wanted to be around drunk idiots, he could just go back home. So maybe not.

“You got anything planned for tonight?” Ryan asks.

“Oh yeah,” Brendon says. “All the plans.”

“Do people trick or treat in your neighbourhood? You could put out a bowl of candy or something.”

“Dude, if I could afford candy, I’d be eating it myself,” Brendon says.

“Do you really have somewhere to go?” Ryan asks. “Because you can come with me.”

“I’ve got friends other than you,” Brendon says, narrowing his eyes. It’s a lie in the same way it’s a lie when Ryan says he doesn’t mind going home. It’s not that he would literally rather tear off his fingernails than see his dad. It’s not that Brendon literally never speaks to a single person other than those in his band. It’s just.

“Do you have a costume?” Ryan asks.

\--

Brendon takes all of the drinks offered and ends up pink-faced and sweaty. Ryan thinks unkind thoughts about the way his hair is plastered to his forehead and takes Brendon’s keys away, herding him into the passenger’s seat and driving them both to Brendon’s place.

Brendon was rambunctious at the party, but now he’s quiet and still, leaning his head against the window. Ryan speeds up as he goes around corners and hits the breaks extra hard when there’s a red light. He hears Brendon’s head knock against the glass a couple of times, but Brendon doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” Ryan says, parking Brendon’s car. Even though Brendon’s just got one shitty, single mattress on the floor, he owes Ryan for driving him home or. Whatever. Ryan’s tired.

They walk down the hall toward Brendon’s apartment and just as Brendon’s pulling out his keys, a door down the hall opens and people come out yelling loudly. Ryan can’t make out what they’re saying well enough to know if it’s a fight, but he still feels his heart starts to race. Brendon fits the key in the lock and opens the door, and Ryan thinks of him coming home to this every night.

Brendon’s apartment is one room, plus the bathroom. There’s a fridge, sink, and stove in the corner closest to the door. Brendon’s bed is on the floor on the far side of the room. He’s got a bedside table that’s holding a pile of textbooks, and another guitar leaning up against the wall by the closet.

The card table and two fold-up chairs are new.

“When did you get those?” Ryan asks, nodding his head in the direction of the kitchen area.

“Last week,” Brendon says. “Someone left them by the garbage bins ‘round back.” He pumps his fist half-heartedly. “Free shit.”

“Awesome,” says Ryan.

“You want something?” Brendon asks. “I’ve got, I don’t know. Bread. Peanut butter. Cereal.”

“You still drinking soy milk?” Ryan asks.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. “It’s not so bad with cereal.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Ryan says absently. Brendon sings better when he’s off dairy and Brendon singing better will pay off. Eventually. “You should drink some water.”

Brendon rolls his eyes, but he walks over to the sink, grabbing a glass off the counter and holding it under the tap. He makes dramatic eyes at Ryan once he’s finished drinking, and Ryan ignores him.

Brendon strips down to his underwear, directing the clothes into a pile as they fall on the floor. He gives a full body shiver and leaps at the bed, squirms under the piles of blankets and punches the pillow into shape. Ryan undresses slowly. Slides his shirt up and pulls it carefully over his head. The room isn’t as cold as Brendon made it seem. Ryan steps out of his jeans.

Brendon’s made the bed warm already. Even though Ryan’s happy to be single, better off without her, that fucking _bitch_ , he misses having someone to sleep with. It’s not the same sharing a bed with Brendon, who turns into a sweaty furnace through the night. There are no smooth legs for Ryan to slide his knee against. No long hair to float across to his pillow and get in his mouth, but that’s about the only thing Brendon has going for him.

“Are you asleep?” Brendon asks in a poor approximation of a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Did you have fun tonight?”

Ryan lies silently and looks at the ceiling. It was—fine. Like how everything’s kind of fine these days and still nothing like what he wants it to be.

“I saw you talking to that girl with the braids—”

“This isn’t a fucking slumber party,” says Ryan.

Brendon rolls away from Ryan and mutters, “I know.”

Ryan cuts his eyes to the side. Brendon’s just this mess of hair and then long stretch of bare skin, the blanket sliding down from his shoulders to settle around his waist.

“Did _you_ have fun?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how you find out about all these places.”

“High school parties,” Ryan says, and Brendon rolls back over to give him a look.

“Cradle robber.”

“You were the one making out with the pirate wench,” Ryan says.

“Not actually,” Brendon says. “It was just a valiant attempt.”

“I thought you were ‘taking a break from sex.’”

“Oral doesn’t count.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“Duh,” Brendon says, kicking Ryan’s ankle under the blankets.

\--

Brendon wakes first and makes a very loud show of quietly getting out of bed. Ryan thinks maybe he’ll go back to sleep but even though he refuses to open his eyes, he doesn’t drift off again. He leans over the side of the bed, reaching for his jeans so that he can slide out from under the blankets and directly into his pants. He’s got morning wood, which doesn’t really matter, but it’s not like he’s going to get up and wave his dick at Brendon. Even though Brendon’s currently standing over the sink wearing only a pair of too small briefs as he chews his way loudly through a bowl of cereal.

Ryan walks the dozen steps over to the kitchen and helps himself to a bowl, reaching across Brendon for the carton of soy milk.

“You sleep okay?” Brendon asks. He’s always so fucking chatty in the morning. How’d you sleep? What are your plans for the day? You want to take the first shower? It’s one thing when it’s Spencer’s mom and she’s making waffles, but Ryan doesn’t like holding a conversation first thing in the morning.

“Fine.”

“You kick in your sleep.”

“Who says I was sleeping?” Ryan asks. “I was probably trying to get you to stop snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“I’d know better than you,” Ryan says.

“No one’s ever said anything.”

“Because you sleep with _so_ many people.”

“I’ve slept with people,” Brendon says, and Ryan shuts himself up with another bite of cereal. Brendon sure spends a lot of time talking about not being a virgin for someone who is supposedly really not a virgin.

“You need a ride somewhere?” Brendon asks after rinsing out his bowl. “I have to be at school at 8:30.”

“Nah, I’m okay,” Ryan says. “I have a shift at the vet this afternoon, so I can just take the bus.”

“Have you told your dad that you’ve dropped out of college yet?”

“No.”

Brendon looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t. Brendon’s pretty good about not saying anything about other people’s family business these days.

\--

 **  
**_three._  


He thinks that maybe starting with, “We got signed!” will make a difference to his dad, but it turns out that dropping out of college is dropping out of college.

“You’re not what I hoped my son would be,” his dad says.

None of this—none of _anything_ —is what Ryan hoped it would be, and he’d scream back except for the acid burn rising up in his stomach. It hurts so bad that he’s scared to open his mouth. It’s the kind of burn he imagines ripping out his dad’s guts on the nights when Dad carries the bottle with him into the living room and turns on the TV. Not even the pretence of leaving the bottle in the fridge with the back and forth, back and forth all night long to refill his glass.

Ryan stands still and his dad keeps yelling. Spit flies out of his mouth. Ryan braces against another slow wave of contempt slithering up under his ribcage. He should leave. Why is he just standing here? But he’ll have to get out of the house entirely, because his dad’s not going to let him just walk away. Ryan doesn’t know where he can go for the night—Spencer’s got drum lessons until nine and his sisters have soccer and Ryan was already there four nights last week.

Even if he did have somewhere to go, it still feels safer to just wait it out. Somehow. Even though his dad’s already going at full volume with no signs of slowing down, there’s still that feeling of dread. Like maybe if Ryan says something or walks away he’ll make his dad even madder and what would _that_ look like?

What’s worse than this? With the way Ryan’s stomach is twisting tighter and tighter and his dad’s going through how much it cost to send Ryan to private school for all these years, and he didn’t pay _that much_ for Ryan to drop out of college in his first semester to join a _band_ , what a disappointment, what a shame, what an ungrateful useless greedy thoughtless son. They’ve been through this before, month after month, when Panic! got serious and Ryan only enrolled in four classes, or even before the band was anything more than Ryan and Spencer jamming in the garage, but it was a Wednesday and Ryan left his wet towel on the floor or brought home a B in English and maybe he’d know how to write essays if he read literature instead of the _crap_ he wastes all his time on.

It’s been this fight for as long as Ryan can remember. This, “You are not what I want you to be,” shock of disappointment and the rage that Ryan never changes, never figures it out. Ryan knows how it goes, knows to wait for his dad to trail off and slip away to his room and that sometimes it’s better to slip out of the house entirely. And then either his dad will be _fine_ the next time Ryan sees him, or he won’t be speaking to Ryan, and there’s no way to tell how it’s going to swing. It’s been a lot of silent treatment lately.

Either way, there will be another fight. It doesn’t matter what Ryan does know; it’s not as though there’s anything for them to work out. His dad could be yelling at him or yelling at a potted plant. But still Ryan stands here, because what if there _is_ worse than this?

\--

“Fought with my dad,” Ryan says, holding the phone to his ear. It’s 10:21, which is really too late to be calling, but Spencer answered on the first ring so it’s probably okay.

“Sucks,” Spencer says.

“Yeah.”

Ryan twists the coiled cord of the phone around his finger until the tip goes dark red.

“You need to sleep over here tonight?” asks Spencer after a pause.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Ryan says. His dad’s still moving around the house, but it’s pretty unlikely that he’ll come into Ryan’s room. There’s this feeling of dread twisting in Ryan’s stomach, like he’s still waiting. Even though he knows that nothing else will happen. There have been, like, five times _ever_ that his dad’s come into his room once he was already in bed. Only one time, once Ryan was already asleep, and that was just because Ryan conked out unusually early. There’s no reason now for Ryan to be listening so carefully for the sound of footsteps moving around the house.

Through the receiver, he can hear the soft click of buttons as Spencer plays his Gameboy. Sometimes Spencer mutters under his breath, “C’mon, fucker,” and Ryan can imagine exactly how he looks, slumped forward as he smashes the buttons with his thumbs. Spencer’s the only person in the world that Ryan can be silent on the phone with.

It isn't that long before Ryan hears his dad lumber up the stairs. Ryan feels his shoulder blades pulling tight together, but his dad just walks down the hall. There’s the click of his bedroom door closing and then Ryan lets out a breath, biting his cheek angrily against the stupid surge of disappointment. Like maybe this would be the one time that his dad came in to say sorry instead of going to bed mad. It should be a relief that Ryan doesn’t have to worry anymore about his dad coming in with one other thing that’s been pissing him off that he forgot to mention amidst the countless other things that have been pissing him off.

Ryan had slunk away a couple hours ago, waiting around before calling Spencer. The computer’s in the den and tonight it seemed like a better idea to stay in his bedroom with the door closed. Now that his dad’s in bed, Ryan can go downstairs. He doesn’t have work until eleven tomorrow morning, so it’s not like he has to fall asleep any time soon. Going online will be a hell of a lot more interesting than sitting here, listening to Spencer play Gameboy.

“I’ll see you in practice tomorrow,” Ryan says. “Seven?”

“Uh—” There’s a pause, a shuffle, then Spencer says, “Yeah, seven. Brendon’s got a shift at the Smoothie Hut and he said he’d give you a ride if you met him there.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. He might just take the bus, but, for as much as they make fun of it, the purple minivan does come in handy. Ryan hates having to carry his guitar with him on the bus. He always feels like people are watching him, and not in the good way. He’d get a T-shirt that says PETE WENTZ SIGNED US, MOTHERFUCKERS, but. Soon. They’ll record the CD and then he won’t be taking the fucking bus. He’ll have money for his own car, instead of just enough to throw some Brendon’s way every once and a while for gas. And they’ll have a record out and all the assholes giving Ryan dirty looks because his guitar is taking up the seat beside him can just buy his CD and fuck themselves with it.

Ryan inhales slowly and says again, “Okay.” He feels inexplicably mad at the whole world right now, which means he needs to get off the phone before he snipes at Spencer. It’s funny because Spencer gets the same vaguely constipated look on his face when Ryan snarks at him as he does when Ryan talks about his dad. That same look of _I don’t know what to say here_. It’s not actually funny, but Spencer’s face looks stupid, so there’s that. Ha ha.

And it doesn’t even matter, because Spencer lets Ryan have half the bed whenever he wants, and having somewhere to stay counts for a hell of a lot more than an articulate, “Don’t worry about your dad,” or—whatever. Ryan doesn’t even know what an articulate response wod d sound like because he doesn’t _actually_ want to talk about it. He just sometimes brings stuff up. Ryan would rather spend the whole afternoon at the park, just skateboarding around in circles because neither he nor Spencer can do any tricks. He can spend twenty-four hours with Spencer without ever feeling like they’ve run out of stuff to do, because there’s always another song to learn, or park to walk to, or package of bottle rockets that Spencer’s been hiding under his bed.

“See you at practice tomorrow,” Ryan says and hangs up the phone without waiting for Spencer to say goodbye.

He stretches out on his bed and fully intends on just falling asleep, but his heart won’t stop throbbing in his chest and there’s this little shake in his hands from the leftover adrenalin. He hasn’t heard any sounds, so his dad’s probably passed out by now.

Ryan grabs his hoodie and his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder without bothering to check what’s in it. The bus is mostly empty when Ryan climbs on, and he takes the seat right behind the driver.

There’s no reasonable way that he could ask, but Ryan wishes that Brendon would just give him a set of keys. That way he wouldn’t have to stand there and _wait_ after knocking. The chance that Brendon isn’t even home and then where the fuck is Ryan going to go?

But eventually Brendon unlocks the door, holding it open when Ryan says, “Hey,” and walks inside.

Brendon’s shirtless, with a pair of old sweatpants riding low around his hips. There’s this solidness around his waist, even though he’s skin and bones just the same as Ryan. Maybe it’s not a solidness, maybe it’s just the way his waist stretches straight down from his ribcage without moving in, like all of the sudden Ryan has figured out that the male body is different from the female one. What a stupid thing to notice.

Ryan jokes around about stuff, but he’s never actually kissed a guy.

“Told my dad,” he says.

“How did that go?” asks Brendon.

Ryan lifts one shoulder.

“You want something to eat?”

“What do you have?”

“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “Cereal.”

“Sure.”

Brendon turns. He grabs a bowl out of the cupboard for Ryan, even though Ryan knows where everything is. Brendon’s back flexes as the reaches up. His sweatpants are as low as they’re going to get, held up by the curve of his ass. Ryan feels, like. Stupidly aware of Brendon’s body. He feels stupid, and walks up behind Brendon, crowding him against the counter. He’s a little taller than Brendon, and Brendon turns his head, trying to look at Ryan over his shoulder, but he doesn’t move away.

Ryan tips his head forward until they’re way too close to make eye contact. He slides his hand around, dragging his fingers over Brendon’s skin as he circles Brendon’s waist. Opens his palm across Brendon’s belly and feels the movement beneath his skin when Brendon’s breathes. Ryan braces himself with his other hand on the counter and closes his eyes.

He thinks that maybe Brendon will say something now. No matter what comes out of his mouth, it’s going to be the wrong thing. But Brendon stays quiet, and when Ryan gives a little squeeze with his fingers and starts to let go, Brendon turns in the circle of his arms. They’re still way too close. Ryan opens his eyes, but all he can see is Brendon, right there, and then Brendon lifts his chin. It’s like they were already kissing, but when they do actually kiss, it’s also like, _finally_.

Brendon’s got this really soft mouth and sloppy, wet tongue and he kisses like he’s hungry for it. Ryan holds only the edge of the counter, presses his body against Brendon’s, presses Brendon back and rocks their hips together. It’s really easy to feel where Brendon’s hard, the soft fabric of his sweatpants hiding nothing. Maybe it should be weird to be reminded that Brendon’s got a dick in there, but Ryan kind of likes it. Brendon’s turned on and Ryan can actually feel it and that’s pretty fucking hot.

Ryan pulls back. Part of him wants to go, go, go, but he’s also got this stupid reckless feeling, like he doesn’t even care if stopping makes it awkward. Like, fuck it. Brendon opens his eyes. He’s got this look on his face. His red lips and the flush along his cheek bones. Ryan’s dick twitches, because all of the sudden it’s Brendon’s lame face that gets him going.

This is probably the point where Ryan should loosen his grip on Brendon’s hip—bare skin and the cut of the bone beneath Ryan’s thumb—but even though they’re not kissing anymore, it doesn’t feel like they’ve stopped.

Brendon says, “So, um, do you want to, like...?” and finally Ryan lets go, nodding.

It’s awkward fitting together again once they’re both lying down but then Ryan slips his fingers under the edge of Brendon’s sweatpants, and it’s just more bare skin, so. Fuck. There are probably things to be considered here, but Ryan’s so sick of thinking all the time. Brendon’s just _Brendon_ , and Ryan doesn’t care if this is fucked up.

Ryan sits up and moves down the bed so that he can slide off Brendon’s sweatpants, and then Brendon’s naked and there’s this whole long stretch of naked Brendon skin. His nipples and his knees and his dick. That first gut-clenching shock of nakedness and Brendon’s hands clenched into fists, digging into the mattress.

It’s not that weird to wrap his hand around Brendon’s dick. Ryan’s spent a whole hell of a lot of time with a hand on his own dick, and whatever. Penis. Brendon’s penis, which is a different size and shape than Ryan’s and jumps a little in Ryan’s hand when he runs his thumb in a circle around the head. The angle’s different from what Ryan’s used to and the skin feels warm and freakishly smooth. Like, Ryan doesn’t want to tighten his grip because the skin feels so, so soft.

Brendon makes a little noise through his nose and Ryan looks, because—right. Brendon. Not just the dick in his hand, there’s also a Brendon attached to it. Except that Brendon seems weirdly detached from the whole situation. He’s all the way up at the head of the bed and Ryan’s down here with the dick. It’s strange to think that Ryan’s had a million other interactions with Brendon and none of them have involved Brendon’s dick—as much as Brendon sometimes talked about it—but now Ryan’s got a dick in his hand and it’s all he can think about. This living _thing_ that’s leaking at the tip and twitching up when Ryan circles his thumb a certain way.

Ryan’s not giving a very good handjob. As he thinks about it, he’s surprised that Brendon’s just waiting through it. The loose grip of Ryan’s hand, the uneven rhythm. If it were Ryan, he’d probably be reaching his own hand down to help things along. But Brendon’s just waiting, holding still and quiet.

Ryan’s not _trying_ to be a jerk, so he lifts up his hand and spits into his palm before grabbing Brendon’s dick again. He gets in a couple of nice, long strokes, squeezing tightly as he pulls up, the thumb of his other hand pressed to the base of Brendon’s dick, and then Brendon’s making a sharp, high noise. Ryan looks up and sees Brendon’s face all screwed up, and then when he looks down again, there’s come on the back of his hand. He tightens his fingers, and Brendon’s dick gives another weak spurt.

So. That’s that.

Ryan wipes his hands off on Brendon’s sweatpants, tangled at the foot of the bed, and crawls back up, lying down beside Brendon. He looks up at the ceiling, considering. It seems like maybe he should be freaking out right now, but he’s just calm and maybe a little self-satisfied.

“Have you ever done that before?” Brendon asks. His voice is thick in this way that reminds Ryan that his dick is still hard.

“No.” Ryan glances sideways. Brendon’s nipples are still really hard. “Have you?”

“No.” Brendon lifts a hand and touches the base of his throat before curling his fingers around the side of his neck.

\--

Ryan doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because he wakes, disoriented, and squints at the little alarm clock resting on the floor beside Brendon’s bed until he can make out the numbers: 4:16.

Ryan’s still wearing all of his clothes, and Brendon’s lying next to him, naked except for the sheet twisted around one ankle. He mumbles something to himself and then rolls onto his back, wrinkling up his face.

“Whatsit,” he says, pressing his palm to his eyes. They left on all the lights. Ryan’s surprised they managed to sleep for as long as they did.

“It’s like four,” Ryan says. “Someone needs to go turn off the lights.” Possibly that someone should be him, since he’s still got his clothes on, but it’s Brendon’s place and Ryan doesn’t feel like moving.

Brendon looks over at Ryan, his face screwed up against the light. His forehead’s furled and his skin looks pale except for the dark sleep flush across his cheeks. Ryan’s never seen him look so disoriented, and maybe Ryan’s still disoriented, too, because he lifts his arm and lets Brendon tuck himself against Ryan’s side.

Brendon’s warm, even though he’s been sleeping naked and without blankets. Warm, smooth skin beneath Ryan’s hand. Ryan feels this low swelling of protectiveness, and he tilts his head to make the angle right when Brendon pushes up for a kiss. Like this is something they do now: find each other in the night and trade long, wet kisses until Ryan’s lips feel raw from the press of Brendon’s stubble.

\--

 **  
**_four._  


There’s an email waiting for Ryan when he gets home in the early afternoon:

>   
>  _I’m sick and wont be at practice._
> 
> _\--bden_

Ryan calls Spencer and then heads straight over to Brendon’s instead of to the practice space.

Brendon opens the door, looking unwashed but not _sick_.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ryan asks.

“I’m sick,” Brendon says, letting Ryan push his way into the house.

“With what?”

“A cold. What are people ever sick with?”

“You80on’t sound like you have a cold.” Ryan walks to the kitchen area and helps himself to a glass of water. Maybe it should be awkward to be here, like these past couple weeks of kind-of-not-really talking to each other should have been awkward. They sort of were, but also Ryan just didn’t have anything to say to Brendon. _How’s your dick doing since I last saw it?_

“Thanks, doctor,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes.

“I changed the lyrics to 'Lying' a little,” Ryan says. “We were going to work on that today.”

“So we can work on it next practice instead.”

Ryan sets his glass down on the counter. “I guess.”

“Was it just that you needed a glass of water or are you here for a reason?”

“Just thought I’d stop by. You had dinner with your parents yesterday, right?”

“Yeah.”

Ryan nods, mostly to himself because Brendon is having a staring contest with the floor. “Maybe I should make you something to eat, if you’re sick.”

“What the fuck do you know how to cook?”

“Grilled cheese.”

“I only have bagels.”

“Grilled bagels then.”

“How’s that different from toasted bagels?”

“They have melted cheese instead of cream cheese.”

“I put peanut butter on my bagels.”

“I know, but that’s just ridiculous.”

It turns out that Brendon only has Kraft Singles, so they bagels don’t have melted cheese as much as softened plastic, but Ryan butters both sides first so it still tastes okay.

“I’m still not coming to practice,” Brendon says, fingering the last wedge of his bagel.

“It’s way too late to practice now,” Ryan says with a wave of his hand.

“Okay, well, thanks for the bagel or whatever.”

“Sure.”

If this were Spencer’s house, they could turn on the TV or play a video game or whatever to pass the time. Always lots of things to do instead of talking. But Brendon’s TV doesn’t get cable, and they’ve already exhausted his limited selection of videotapes. They could go see a movie, but Ryan doesn’t think that Brendon will want to leave the apartment.

Ryan walks over to Brendon’s bed and pushes the hoodie and pair of jeans off the mattress before sitting down. Brendon’s got those folding chairs now, but they’re uncomfortable. Brendon’s bed is the closest thing he’s got to a couch.

Brendon spends a minute splashing water around in the sink, but when he finally turns, he walks over to the bed and sits down beside Ryan.

“Did you tell your parents we got signed?” Ryan asks, looking at his hands.

“Yeah.”

Ryan cuts his eyes to the side and catches Brendon’s shrug.

“Well, fuck ‘em,” Ryan says.

“It wasn’t like that,” Brendon says. “They were. You know.”

“Sure,” says Ryan.

“They wanted to make sure I’d come over for Christmas.”

“It’s only November,” Ryan says.

Brendon shrugs again.

Ryan takes a breath, twists himself around and seals his mouth to Brendon’s. There’s no room left inside of him for someone else’s sadness, but maybe they can try to burn some of it off together. Or something. Something that sounds neither gay nor pathetic, even though Ryan kind of feels like both of those things right now.

Brendon shoves his tongue inside of Ryan’s mouth, and when Ryan returns the favor, Brendon _sucks_ , and it is the wettest kiss Ryan’s ever had, but it makes Ryan’s skin go hot and cold and the same time, like he’s so turned on his body doesn’t know how to process it.

Ryan had thought a lot about kissing Brendon again, after the first time. Sometimes he wanted to and sometimes he didn’t, and it was hard to decide if this was going to be a _thing_. Like a big _thing_ that he had to figure out. A _thing_ , like the kind of thing he’d eventually have to tell people about, but, no. It’s not a thing, it’s just that he might as well try having sex with Brendon. Another thing to cross off the list. It’s hard to know how to label it, even just inside his head, so he doesn’t. It’s just BRENDON, all capitals like his brain is reminding him to pay attention. Brendon and his tongue and that time Ryan held his dick.

Brendon’s hands are sweaty and rough, and he’s touching Ryan everywhere. Ryan’s shirt comes off and there’s a moment where Brendon looks at the bruise low on Ryan’s shoulder and doesn’t say anything.

“It wasn’t like that,” Ryan says.

“Okay,” Brendon says, like he’s eager to go back to the kissing, but still his eyes flicker down again.

It wasn’t like anything, except that when his dad had said, “Get out of here, I can’t stand looking at you right now,” Ryan had stepped backward and swung his arm into the wall when he was turning around. He thought the fight about him dropping out of college was over, but then it really, really wasn’t. The pain of his arm hitting the corner of the wall, where kitchen turned into dining room, was shocking. He was frozen in that moment, before the roar in his stomach came back and the _get out, get out_ , and he was more careful the next time he turned around.

“I didn’t come here to talk,” Ryan says, and pushes Brendon back onto the bed.

It’s easy to get naked, which seems wrong because then they’re _naked_ and shouldn’t that have been a little more difficult? How is this actually something they do? Get naked and then rock together while Brendon’s sheets tangle at the foot of the bed.

Brendon’s got this boy body, and his boy hands clutch Ryan’s hips as they rut together. It’s difficult to make their dicks line up, but Ryan’s still getting friction from Brendon’s stomach. His boy stomach and the spread of red bumps where he’s shaved away the line of hair low on his belly. He’s shaved other places, too. A little bit. Ryan knows that now.

Ryan thinks about what he’s about to say for the time it takes him to roll his hips, one long dirty grind, and then he says, “We should fuck.” Because, well. Why not.

Brendon goes tense beneath him. “I’ve never done that.”

“Me neither,” Ryan says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. _Obviously_ neither of them have done that. “Wanna try?”

Brendon’s nipples are smooth and flat except for the hard bump in the middle. It’s just this tiny point, but Ryan brushes his thumb back and forth over the point and gives Brendon time to stare up at the ceiling.

He seems to find whatever answer he was looking for because he draws in a shaky breath, and says, “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

“So I can, you know,” Ryan asks, looking down meaningfully.

“I guess,” Brendon says. He sounds doubtful.

“We can switch if you hate it.”

Brendon nods. His forehead is furled.

Ryan cups Brendon’s knee as he moves between his legs, coaxing Brendon to spread to make room for him. Ryan hasn’t had sex since he broke up with _her_ — lying, cheating, backstabbing bitch— and this isn’t exactly how he planned to get back on the wagon, mostly because he’ll never be able to tell anyone about it, but that doesn’t seem like reason enough to stop.

It is so fucking weird to reach down between Brendon’s legs, sliding his finger along the crease that starts just under Brendon’s balls until he reaches the pucker of his asshole. It feels like the tiniest, smoothest wrinkle of skin as Ryan pushes lightly with the tip of his finger and then it’s the most insane clench of tightens as his finger pushes inside.

“Gah,” Brendon says, jerking away, and then, “Motherfucker,” as Ryan’s fingertip pushes out.

“Stay still,” Ryan says.

“Be _careful_ ,” Brendon says.

“You’re being dramatic,” Ryan says. It’s funny even now, while Brendon makes a face and hides his ass by closing his knees. Ryan’s been told he’s being too dramatic by every adult in his life. His dad had said it—when Ryan loaded up his arms with more empty bottles than he could comfortably carry out of the kitchen and into the garage and one of the bottles slipped free of his grasp and landed on the floor without breaking. Rolled across the carpet in the direction of his father, sitting on the couch.

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic,” his dad had said. “I’ll clean the kitchen when I have time on the weekend.”

 _Overly dramatic_ , Ryan’s professor had written on the last story he handed in. _What were the aubergine dreams supposed to symbolize?_

“It hasn’t been _months_ since I’ve returned your call,” Ryan’s mom had said when he'd finally gotten a hold of her in the summer. “Don’t be dramatic.”

Ryan hadn't corrected her, but he'd kicked the Mother’s Day present he’d been holding onto all that time further to the back of his closet.

Ryan thinks that maybe Brendon doesn’t get the joke, because his thighs are pressed together and he’s giving Ryan the stink eye.

“Oh, come on,” Ryan says.

“This feels like a terrible idea.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Brendon takes a slow breath and then, even more slowly, spreads his thighs. “Don’t be a dick about this,” he mutters, turning his face so that he mutters into his shoulder.

Ryan doesn’t mean to be. He rubs his finger against Brendon’s asshole and then pushes in so carefully, but there’s this moment where he can feel the tight grip _give_ and he lets his finger sink in deeper and Brendon lets out a, “Gahhh,” and climbs up the bed and away from Ryan’s finger.

“Jesus Christ, _what_?”

“That felt really fucking weird.”

“I wasn’t, like, forcing it in.”

“It was too fast.”

“You moved _away_ too fast.”

“You said you weren’t going to be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick!”

“You’re not _not_ being a dick.”

“Whatever, fuck. We’ll just trade.”

“You were serious about that?”

“Why the hell not,” Ryan says, because. Really. As if this evening could get any more absurd. Why not take a dick up his ass while he’s at it?

He flops onto his back and Brendon clamours around the bed and then he’s poking between Ryan’s legs with his thick, boy fingers. It doesn’t hurt as much as it tickles and Ryan’s really just going on instinct when he kicks Brendon in the ribs. It’s harder than he would have kicked if he were doing it on purpose.

“Oww,” Brendon says, clutching his side.

“As if that hurt more than what you did to me.”

“Umm, you stuck your fingers in my ass and then you kicked me, so as the only person here who has _actually experienced both of those things_ , the kick hurt more.”

“So you _were_ being dramatic.”

“I can’t even believe that you’ve had more sex than all the rest of us,” Brendon says.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. And then belatedly, “Ha.”

\--

Ryan walks down the street, away from Brendon’s apartment, and when he arrives at the bus stop, he leans against the metal pole and tries to decide where he wants to go.

He ends up catching the bus that takes him back to his neighbourhood, but walks past his house and rings Spencer’s doorbell.

(He and Brendon laid side by side in bed for a while, after Ryan had said, “Whatever, I don’t even want to have sex anymore,” which was only 95% a lie. He’d thought about trying to convince Brendon to give him a blowjob, but that seemed like a lot of work. Were it not for the fact that Ryan has nothing but distrust in his heart for all females in the human race, he would think it was time to get a girlfriend. _Girls_. What the fuck ever. Brendon’s too much like _Brendon,_ and his boy body is confusing to Ryan’s dick.)

Spencer answers the door, and Ryan says, “Brendon was lying about being sick.” They’re the first words out of his mouth, even though he had a plan that involved not talking about Brendon.

“Thanks for sussing that out, Sherlock,” Spencer says, leaning against the wooden banister while Ryan toes off his shoes. “Didn’t he have lunch with his parents yesterday?”

“Yeah.”

“So give him a break.”

“I have to see my dad every single day,” Ryan says.

Spencer shrugs.

Ryan shoves past him on his way up the stairs. It’s fine if Spencer’s going to have all of the soft squishy feelings for poor Brendon, living all on his own, but Spencer’s stupid squishy brain should also realize that sometimes it’s even harder to stay at home.

Spencer’s mom still does his laundry, so what does he know _really_?

But it’s _Spencer_ , and he lets Ryan have the first turn on the PlayStation, and when he goes downstairs, he comes back with a box of Oreos and two glasses of milk, and it’s still the best afternoon Ryan’s had all month: the easy noises of family moving around the house, Spencer’s lilting voice as he retells the story his biology teacher told them last week. Ryan explodes four warehouses and thinks about how he almost had a dick up his ass. It would be funny to sit in Spencer's house after having all of the gay assfucking.

He thinks that Spencer should almost just _know_. Or know enough to ask, maybe: _What did you and Brendon get up to this afternoon? How are you feeling about dicks these days?_

Ryan wouldn’t know how to answer that, but it would be easier than trying to bring it up himself. Not that he _would_ bring it up. Telling Spencer when he had sex with a girl for the first time was one thing—a thing not unlike bragging—but talking about Brendon’s dick is a whole other kettle of fish. A fishy kettle of dicks. Dicks, dicks, dicks. Ryan touched Brendon’s dick. It doesn’t seem weird when he thinks about it, but... the lack of weirdness feels really weird, and Ryan’s head is a little confused. Is it a _thing_ if he tells Spencer about it? Is it a thing if he _can’t_? Will Spencer notice if he eats the last three Oreos?

\--

Spencer’s mom asked if he wanted to stay for dinner, but Ryan ate with them four times last week and sometimes it’s awesome to spend time with the Smiths and sometimes it’s just a little too much. Today it feels like it might be too much, so Ryan walks himself home.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” his dad says when Ryan passes by him on the way to the kitchen.

“Okay,” Ryan says. It’s past seven, so he'd thought that his dad would have already eaten. “Is it ready?”

“Should be. Lasagna.”

“Awesome,” Ryan says. His dad’s holding a tumbler, but he gives Ryan a little smile before standing and following him into the kitchen.

His dad still makes lasagna with just noodles, sauce, and cheese, because when Ryan was little he always picked out all of the other fillings. At this point, Ryan can handle a little ground beef mixed in with his tomato sauce, but there’s something about the routine that he still likes. Special lasagna just for him.

Ryan sets the table and when his dad sits down, he’s just got a beer.

“Did you work at the vet today?” his dad asks.

“Yeah,” Ryan says.

He feels a tightening in his gut, like this reminder that he’s working instead of going to school is going to be the thing that fucks this all up, but his dad just asks, “How’s that going?”

“Good,” Ryan says. “Not so many litters coming in these days now that it’s winter.”

“You always were pretty crazy about puppies,” his dad says, passing Ryan a plate with a piece of lasagna.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He takes a first bite and says, “This is really good. Lots of puppies need lots of attention. Even though it’s easy to get people to adopt them. It’s a lot more work.”

“You’ve been there a long time. Obviously you know what you’re doing. They’re lucky to have you.”

Ryan looks down at his plate.

“Thanks.”

The rest of the meal is easy, like all of the sudden his dad _can_ tell when he’s joking, and actually finds him funny.

\--

“Can you take out the garbage?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, not looking away from the computer. He’s going to finish replying to these comments and then he’ll do it.

“Now, please,” his dad says.

“Just a sec,” Ryan says, typing faster.

He’s almost—almost done when there’s the slam of the side door, silence, and then the sounds of the door opening again.

“I was going to do it,” Ryan says.

“I do so much for you and you can’t even get off your ass to help with the littlest things. I’m sick of your tone.”

“I wasn’t—there was no tone. I just wanted to—”

“You can more about your computer than you do about this family.”

Having one parent who is only sometimes around doesn’t make a family. Ryan clenches his jaw and ignores the ache already settling in the back of his skull.

“Look, I’m sorry. I was seriously going to take it out.”

“I’ve had enough of your attitude,” his days says. “I don’t know who you think you are to talk to me this way. “ Ungrateful. Selfish. Bla bla bla.

Ryan wants to turn him out, but it always seems a little safer to pay attention, just in case something gets said that Ryan could do damage control for. Or, he doesn’t even know. Like maybe he wants to hear when his dad says The Thing. Ryan doesn’t know what The Thing will be, but he has this thing that eventually his dad will say something that’ll be so horrible it’ll change everything. Like he’s here, waiting it out, and his stomach churns and it _sucks_ , but it’s not The Thing. It’s not the last straw where he finally knows, _knows_ , that there’s no point in coming back.

Because even though he’s already trying to decide where he’ll sleep tonight, tomorrow he’ll be back home and it’ll be awkward or frosty or whatever, but it’ll still be the two of them living in this house.

Ryan doesn’t know how Brendon did it. He said, “No, I don’t have to hear what you’re saying, I’m out of here,” and left and didn’t go back. It’s different for Brendon. His parents have each other and all of this other siblings. Ryan’s dad has a lazy, inconsiderate son, and sometimes when he gets too loaded he stumbles around, and there was that time last spring when he fell down the stairs. Just the little, three-step staircase leading into the den, but he hit his head on the banister and had to go to the hospital. Ryan can’t remember the feeling now, but at the time he really did believe that rehab was going to help.

Ryan has to wait until his dad leaves—instead of slinking off when there’s a long enough pause—because he’s still logged in on the computer. There’s no way in hell he’s leaving the room with his email and livejournal open for his dad to see.

When his dad finally leaves, Ryan sends off a quick email, “Can I sleep at your place tonight?” and logs off without waiting for a reply.

\--

Brendon’s wearing boxers and a hoodie and he leans Ryan’s backpack up against the wall when Ryan walks inside and dumps it on the floor.

“You okay?” Brendon asks, trailing after Ryan as Ryan walks across the room and flops down on the bed.

“Yeah,” Ryan says, and then he just lies there silently. Waits until it’s finally time for bed and Brendon has finished doing the dishes and washing his face and turning off the lights. He climbs onto the mattress, his body close enough that Ryan can feel the heat of another person. Brendon seems like he’s waiting, but Ryan stares straight ahead, his back turned to Brendon, and after a long stretch of quiet, Brendon falls asleep. His breathing gets louder, and Ryan knows he’s actually sleeping because Brendon’s way too still and silent when he’s just pretending.

Eventually Ryan drifts off as well.

\--

Ryan doesn’t know the time, but when he wakes up it’s still dark. He rubs his hand to his face and thinks about opening his eyes. Brendon is too still on the bed beside him.

“What,” Ryan says, his palm resting across his temple.

“Sorry,” Brendon says. “Go back to sleep.”

Ryan exhales loudly and clears his throat. He says again, “What, Brendon,” and doesn’t bother turning it into a question.

“Have you ever had sex with a dude?”

Ryan turns his head and squints at Brendon in the dark.

“No.” Which Brendon already knows.

“Okay,” Brendon says. And then, “Do you ever think about it?”

Ryan’s voice is rough when he says, “Brendon.”

“Right, sorry,” Brendon says. “Go back to sleep.” He squirms around for a bit while Ryan stares up at the ceiling.

“Were you trying to hit on me?” Ryan asks.

“No,” Brendon says. “Shut up.”

“Seriously,” Ryan says, “that’s what that was? No wonder you’re a virgin.”

“I’m not a virgin,” Brendon mumbles, “shut up.”

“Seriously.” Ryan sighs. He lowers his hand away from his face and rests his open palm on his belly. “Yeah, why not.”

Brendon inhales and pauses before saying, “What?”

“Why not,” Ryan says. “Sure, fine, why the hell not.”

“You want to—”

“Let’s make with the dicking.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s sex when there are two dicks involved,” Ryan says. “Focus.”

“I’m focused,” says Brendon and then he rolls into Ryan’s half of the bed and pushes his wet tongue into Ryan’s mouth. He presses up against Ryan’s side and Ryan can feel his boner. It’s really hard, digging into his hip. Not hard like a hard-on or whatever, but actually really hard, like it kind of hurts. Ryan shifts so that the angle is better and somewhere in there Brendon ends up crouched over him, all wet mouth and boy boner. It’s a lot so soon after waking up, but Ryan’s hard, too.

Brendon seems kind of desperate, like maybe he was lying awake for a while, waiting for Ryan to notice.

Brendon’s still wearing his hoodie and there’s something stupidly hot about tugging down the zipper and pushing the fabric off of Brendon’s shoulders. There’s a flush warming down Brendon’s chest. He’s all smooth skin and wet mouth and hard cock. It’s all Ryan can think about: Brendon’s dick and the dirty slide of his tongue.

“You want to try again?” Brendon asks.

Ryan nods dumbly.

“I tried by myself,” Brendon whispers into Ryan’s neck. “I think I know how to make it feel okay for you to fuck me.”

“Jesus,” Ryan breathes out, yanking Brendon closer so that they’re pressed together all the way down. Chest and knees and dick. Ryan fumbles with the waist of Brendon’s boxers and says, “Okay, come on, fuck.”

Brendon kicks off his briefs and lunges across the bed, feeling for something on the ground. He tosses a bottle of lube onto the bed and then lies down beside it.

“You liked it?” Ryan asks, picking up the lube and walking on his knees until he’s crouched over Brendon.

“Shut up,” Brendon says.

Ryan rolls his eyes. He pinches Brendon’s nipple and watches the way the muscles in his stomach clench as Brendon’s mouth falls open. Ryan does it again, pulling a little. Harder than he would with a girl, but Brendon just throws his head back against the pillow.

“You liked it,” Ryan says.

The bottle is already open and lube drips over Ryan’s fingers and onto the sheets. He reaches his wet hand down, past Brendon’s dick, feeling along the crease until he reaches the tiny pucker of Brendon’s asshole.

“Don’t kick me,” Ryan says, and then pushes his finger inside.

Brendon’s quiet. Ryan’s finger is inside his body. It’s way too tight to do anything more than inch back and forth. It seems like Brendon’s body doesn’t know whether to push the finger out or hold it inside.

“Maybe you should touch your dick or something,” Ryan says.

“Yeah,” Brendon says. He reaches down, but before he gets to his dick he says, “You need to do it more like—” and makes some ridiculous gesture, miming a guppy hanging on a fish hook.

Ryan says, “Okay,” and makes vague attempts to wiggle his finger, caught in the tight clench of Brendon’s ass.

“Not there,” Brendon says, his forehead wrinkling.

Ryan sighs. And then, fuck it. He pulls the one finger almost all the way out and then adds a second finger and pushes them both back in.

Brendon makes gasping noises and jerks, but when Ryan tights his other hand around Brendon’s hip, he holds still and lets Ryan’s fingers force him open. Ryan’s careful, careful and gentle but he keeps on pushing, and it’s like. Fucking hot, Jesus, his dick throbs and his gut clenches as he slides his fingers into Brendon’s ass. He pushes slow and steady and Brendon holds still for him and takes it, takes his fingers until they’re all the way inside. Brendon lets out this deep, shuddery breath once Ryan’s fingers settle deep inside and Ryan matches the sound, exhaling sharply.

Mother _fucker_ he wants to put his dick in there.

Brendon’s ass is like, god, almost more than Ryan can handle, and he feels super gay. Like Brendon’s run over him with this monster truck of HOMO and now Ryan’s this mess of LET ME PUT IT IN YOUR ASS.

It’s more than he thought it would be. That moment when Brendon rolls his hips, opens his thighs, doesn’t quite manage to bite back this high, breathy noise. Ryan twists his fingers in deeper, pulling another loud exhale from Brendon. Ryan can’t believe Brendon is letting him do this, the way he’s giving it all away like he doesn’t even care that Ryan can tell everything he’s feeling right now. How much he likes it.

Ryan covers his dick with lubricant and tries to figure out how he’s going to get it inside of Brendon. He doesn’t think he’ll fit between Brendon’s thighs in the right way; it’s not like lining himself up to fuck a girl.

“You want to hold your legs up or roll over or what?” Ryan asks.

Brendon shakes his head. His arms are stretched out above his head, knuckles rubbing against the wall. It’s not like this is the first time Ryan has seen Brendon flushed and covered in sweat, but it’s. Yeah. Brendon. His dick is really hard, dark red and resting against his stomach. Ryan thinks maybe about taking it in his mouth, but instead he says, “Okay, roll over,” and nudges at Brendon’s hips until Brendon turns onto his stomach, pushes himself up on all fours.

Ryan looks at Brendon’s ass and thinks, _Fuck_. But that’s the point, that’s what they’re doing here, so it’s okay for him to touch. Drag his fingers across Brendon’s skin, hold him open as he pushes his dick inside. He can’t believe Brendon is letting him do this. The handful of times Ryan has imagined this did nothing to prepare him for how it actually feels to have Brendon naked in front of him, his skin shiny where the lube smeared. The way he holds still while Ryan pushes inside.

Ryan’s heart stands still in his chest for the achingly long minute it takes for Brendon to stretch open around Ryan’s dick. Ryan goes in deeper than he means to when Brendon finally opens for him, and Brendon ducks his head, hiding his face in the crook of his shoulder. The noise he makes is muffled, but Ryan can still hear it.

“Sorry,” Ryan whispers. He holds the base of his dick so that he’ll have more control as he starts inching forward.

Brendon is so fucking tight. He’s restless when Ryan finally slides all the way in, and Ryan doesn’t know what that means. He drags back out, almost all the way, and starts the long slide back in. Brendon tenses again once he’s almost all the way inside, and says, “Not too deep.”

“Okay,” Ryan says. He pulls out again and starts rocking back and forth, the head of his dick pushing through that first tight clench. He flattens his palm on Brendon’s lower back for balance and Brendon arches back into it.

It’s the first time Ryan’s ever fucked anyone without a condom and he feels like he’s going to come _now_ , right now, Jesus Christ Brendon is tight. As if it weren’t already so fucking dirty to be doing this with Brendon, but it’s that much more intense to be doing it without a condom.

Brendon seems to be taking it a little easier now, and Ryan pushes deeper inside, listening carefully to the sounds Brendon makes. Brendon doesn’t tell him to stop, so Ryan keeps going. Brendon drops down to one elbow, reaching down with the other hand. Ryan can see the way his shoulder works as he jerks himself off.

Ryan doesn’t realize that Brendon is coming until his back goes rigid. Brendon is completely silent. Ryan places his open palm between Brendon’s shoulder blades and feels the movement when Brendon finally gulps in air again. Brendon shivers—this full body shimmy. He twitches but takes it as Ryan keeps fucking him. His elbow is digging into the mattress as he braces himself against the momentum of Ryan thrusting into him. His face is hidden in the bend of his elbow.

It all feels like way too much, and for an endless minute Ryan is too overwhelmed with it all to come. He can’t stop fucking Brendon, his hips slapping against Brendon’s ass. Ryan’s body takes over and he fucks Brendon hard and fast and push, push, pushing to get as deep inside as he can.

Ryan comes, riding it out in Brendon’s ass. He has an immediate chest-punching feeling of, _Oh, shit, what did I just do?_ , but it’s fine, it’s okay, Brendon can’t get pregnant.

Ryan needs a shower, but he stretches out on the bed beside Brendon. Brendon’s asshole looked red and swollen when Ryan pulled out, and he fights the urge to slip his fingers back inside. Brendon’s breathing hard and Ryan waits while he catches his breath.

“You totally like it,” Ryan says after he’s had enough of waiting.

“Asshole,” Brendon says. “You liked it too.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Yeah, but,” Brendon repeats. He laughs—too loudly for the quiet of the room—and keeps his face turned away from Ryan.

“You—okay or whatever?” Ryan asks after a beat.

“Peachy,” Brendon says.

“Are you, like. Sore?”

Brendon laughs again.

The first time Ryan had sex with a girl, she bled. Just a little, but apparently that meant he was an asshole for ducking out right after. Even though he _told her_ before they started anything that he had a shift at the vet and it shouldn’t have been a big surprise when he was running late and had to take off.

“I need a shower,” Brendon says.

“ _I_ need a shower,” Ryan says.

“This is my house and you came in my ass,” Brendon says. “I think I get first dibs.”

“Okay, okay,” Ryan says. “I’m just saying.”

“That was—yeah,” Brendon says. He thumps his palm against the mattress a couple of times and then pushes himself up. He sits for a minute, and Ryan watches the way the muscles shift in his back, before he takes a sharp breath and stands to his feet.

Ryan cuts his eyes away and pretends to be looking for his boxers while Brendon makes his way across the room and into the bathroom. It’s like. Ryan wishes it weren’t so late—early, almost sunrise now—and he was able to leave now. Not that he wants to cut and run or anything, but it seems like maybe it would be nice for Brendon if he didn’t come out of the shower to find Ryan still lying on his bed. It looked like it was a long walk from the bed to the bathroom.

\--

Ryan’s dressed and sitting on one of the little folding chairs when Brendon opens the door to the bathroom.

“You want something to eat?” Ryan asks. “You have cereal and soy milk. I checked.”

“Umm,” Brendon says. “Do _you_ want something to eat?”

“Yeah, I was thinking maybe cereal,” Ryan says. “Thanks for offering.”

Brendon snorts. “You going to shower?”

Ryan nods. He feels—not that weird, not really. He hopes that Brendon doesn’t want to kiss or whatever, because Ryan’s done with that part of things, but it’ll be okay if they sit here and eat a bowl of cereal.

Ryan thinks about how he feels right now, here in Brendon’s apartment. He knows one day he will be somewhere else entirely, and he’ll remember how this moment felt. It’s like everything else this year—going through the motions but always thinking of how it will feel when he’s finally made it out. Another thing to add to the list that wasn’t the smartest thing he ever could have done, but wasn’t the dumbest either. Brendon’s sitting across from him stuffing his face with shredded wheat. Already Ryan is beginning to forget how it felt to want him like that, but he tries to hold onto it as he packs this moment away.

“There will be lots of hot water,” Brendon says. “It’s not like anyone else is showering at five in the morning.”

“Sweet,” Ryan says.

\--

 __  
**five.**  


Ryan gets back from his shift at three and already his dad is drunk.

Ryan walks into the den, sees his dad at the computer, a bottle of whiskey and half-empty tumbler on the desk beside him, and walks right back out.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” his dad yells as Ryan turns away.

It’s way too early to leave for practice, but Ryan takes the long way walking to the studio. He unlocks the door, pulls out his guitar, and sits down on the floor, his head tilted back, resting against the wall. He keeps his eyes closed until finally there’s the sound of someone else opening the door.

\--

Practice finishes and Ryan’s kind of glad—because he sounds like shit and everyone else sounds even worse—but mostly he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with himself now. There’s no way he can crash at Brendon’s tonight.

“Are you sleeping over tonight?” Brendon asks, managing to look somewhat casual as he packs up his guitar. His voice is tight, though, and Ryan looks up at the ceiling to avoid rolling his eyes.

“No.”

Ryan wrestles his backpack shut and swings it over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you guys on Thursday,” he says to the group and walks toward the door.

He makes it almost all the way down the hallway before he hears the sound of footsteps and then a touch on his arm as Brendon says, “Wait up.”

Ryan shakes off his hand and keeps walking.

“I can give you a ride home or whatever,” Brendon says.

“I’m not going home.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you just sleep over—”

“Because I’m not fucking doing this,” Ryan says.

“Umm, you’ve been crashing with me the whole time I’ve had my own place.”

“We’re not fuck buddies,” Ryan says. “It’s not the ‘your place or mine’ bullshit.” He wishes he didn’t have to put it out there like that, but Brendon doesn’t seem to _get it_.

“Okay,” Brendon says. “That’s not even what I meant, but whatever.”

“Just because you’re lonely doesn’t mean I have to hang around with you all the time.”

“Just because your dad’s an asshole doesn’t mean you have to be,” Brendon fires back, and for this blinding second, Ryan hand curls into a fist and he’s _thisclose_ to punching Brendon. He swings wide at the last second and slams his knuckles into the wall instead.

“Fuck,” Ryan says, shaking out his hand. It hurts all the way up through his wrist.

Brendon’s eyes slide down to where Ryan’s cradling his hand to his chest. He’s silent for the space of a breath before a look passes over his face.

“Fucking drama queen,” he says, and walks the rest of the way down the hall and out of the building without looking back.

Ryan leans back against the wall. His hand doesn’t even hurt anymore and he considers briefly finding something else to punch.

\--

“I thought you were getting a ride home with Brendon,” Spencer says.

Ryan has spent an infinitely long period of time staring at the wall. He forgot that anyone else was still here.

“Why aren’t you home yet?” Ryan asks.

“I was just cleaning up,” Spencer says. “Where’s Brendon?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan says. “Probably home by now.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “It’s not Brendon’s fault if he can’t sing the song the way you want. We can just rewrite the chorus to something that’s actually in his range.”

“What?” Ryan says. “No. I mean—no, it’s totally within his range, he just needs to _practice_ , but that wasn’t what we were fighting about.”

“How are things going with your dad?” Spencer asks.

“Fine.”

“It’s not your fault he started drinking again.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Ryan says without much heat. Where does Spencer get off actually _saying_ shit like that? But then, fuck. Who even cares at this point.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Spencer says. “But it’s still not your fault that he’s drinking.”

“I know that.”

“I know you know that,” Spencer says. “But I thought I’d say it anyway. It’s not your fault your dad is drinking again, and it fucking sucks. And fighting with Brendon won’t make it suck any less. He needs this band just as much as you do.”

“We weren’t fighting about the song,” Ryan says.

“Well, whatever,” Spencer says. “Don’t it out on him. You’ve been moody for months. Ever since you broke up with –“

“Shut up,” Ryan says.

“Or since your dad—“

“Shut _up_ ,” Ryan says.

“You know what Brendon’s been dealing with.”

Spencer, with his stupid squishy feelings, and his stupid squishy _face_.

“Do you know how sad I am?” Ryan says, his fingers twitching over the skin just under his ears, hovering above his throat. “All the time.” He feels like an asshole actually saying it out loud, but it’s all he ever thinks about, and then there are the words.

“I know!” Spencer says. He opens his hands and holds his palms towards Ryan. “Everyone knows how sad you are. All the time. Nothing I say is ever going to make you feel any better,” and Spencer’s got that same constipated look on his face, only this time it looks tight and sad and not really funny at all.

“I know that,” Ryan says after the initial flash of anger fades into a slow swell of guilt. “I wasn’t saying there was anything you should do.”

“I never know what to say to you,” Spencer says. “I just sound like an asshole or say the wrong thing. I don’t want you to be mad at me, too.”

“I’m not,” Ryan says. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to take it out on you.”

“Don’t take it out on Brendon either.”

“He can handle himself.”

“Ryan.”

“No,” Ryan says, “he _can_. You think he moved out of his parents’ house because he needs someone to hold his hand all of the time?”

“I’m not saying you need to hold his hand, just—"

“Brendon’s going to be fine,” Ryan says. Ryan hates him a little for it, but Brendon’s like one of those plants that can grow on rocks even when there’s no soil and no water. He’s going to come through this. Ryan’s the one who is completely fucked if the band doesn’t take him out of Vegas.

“You’re going to be okay, too,” Spencer says.

Ryan looks up, startled, and finds Spencer staring back at him.

“I know,” Ryan says. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Mom made meatloaf last night—you want to come over and eat leftovers?”

“Meatloaf sounds good,” Ryan says. He doesn’t really want to sit through family fun time at the Smiths’, but Spencer will feel better if he takes Ryan home. When he knows how to avoid it, Ryan tries not to be an asshole. It’s better than going to Brendon’s, and better than going home.

\--

“Hey.” Ryan leans against the counter and watches Brendon rub his palms against the fabric of his apron.

“You want a smoothie?” Brendon asks.

They’ve got band practice tonight. Ryan’s had a whole forty-eight hours to himself since he last saw Brendon—enough time to feel, like. Ready. Or whatever. Like he can look at Brendon wearing his dorky uniform and just see the singer for his band without remembering the shape of his body in the dark.

“Yeah, something with strawberries.”

“What size do you want?”

Ryan shrugs.

“You have to pay,” Brendon says, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t know what kind of operation you think I’m running here.”

“Aww,” Ryan says. “And here I was hoping you’d give me a ride.” It’s almost like a peace offering, or as close as Ryan wants to come to making one. He doesn’t want Brendon to get _ideas_ , but it’s better for everyone to avoid awkwardness.

There’s another girl working behind the counter, and she’s looking over at Ryan, glancing back and forth between him and Brendon. Ryan never would have expected it, but there’s something about Brendon that girls are into. Even though he’s all loud arms and unfortunate bangs.

Ryan doesn’t understand women, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I’m _working_ ,” Brendon says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus.”

“I meant _after_ ,” Ryan says, looking over Brendon’s shoulder and grinning at the girl. “Are you saying you won’t give me a ride?” He raises his eyebrows, like, _can you believe this guy?_

Brendon huffs, punching a few numbers into the cash register.

“Whatever,” he says. “If you feel like hanging around.”

“Totally,” Ryan says as he pulls out a five. “Especially when you’re so cute in your little hat.”

And, yeah, there it is. The girl laughs, pulling out a plastic cup and walking toward the counter.

“You want me to make it?” she asks.

“Thanks,” Brendon says.

“Want kind?” she asks, looking at Ryan.

Ryan shrugs and tilts his head toward Brendon.

“Something with strawberries,” Brendon says, shaking his head. “Could you _be_ any more difficult?”

“Yes,” Ryan says.

“Do, like, strawberries, raspberries, and orange juice,” Brendon tells the girl. “Please and thank you.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Please and thank you.”

Brendon pulls a handful of coins from the cash register and dumps them in the tip jar.

“Hey,” Ryan says, “my change.”

“My tip,” Brendon says.

“Highway robbery.”

Brendon laughs in spite of himself. It would be a lot harder to get along with Brendon if he didn’t give it up so easily. Ryan tears the top of the paper wrapper off and then uses the straw to blow the rest of the wrapper in Brendon’s direction.

Brendon catches it out of the air and says, “You want a ride later or not?”

There are no other customers in line, and Ryan leans forward, resting his forearms against the counter. The girl keeps grinning at them, and it’s probably just that she’s bored from the slow day, but Ryan will take what he can get. He feels this buzz under his skin, like maybe this will work; maybe this is just the start. His words and Brendon’s voice. The back and forth that has everyone watching.

“Yes, please,” Ryan says, letting his hair fall in his face. “How soon until your shift is done?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“We’re in a band,” Ryan says—loud enough that the girl will be able to hear him over the noise of the blender. “Did Brendon tell you that?”

“I think he said something,” she says, a little too casual. “You guys any good?”

“The best. Ask Brendon to tell you the next time we’ve got a gig. You should come.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “We know how to put on a show.” He looks at Brendon. “Right?”

“It’s true,” Brendon says without skipping a beat.


End file.
